The Case Of The Evil Librarian
by mylittlehazmat
Summary: He'd had enough of Mr. George Herbert. Not even an eternity of Sherlock was worth him as a reprieve. Harsh criticism appreciated.


It was a dismal, drizzling morning that John came home with a stack of particularly beaten library books and dropped himself into his chair with a large mug of tea. It was the same dismal, drizzling morning that John had discovered Sherlock passed out on the floor of the living room, prompting the doctor to drag the limp creature upstairs to it's bed and then quickly, but quietly, rejoice at his good fortune.

Living a Sherlock life was a demanding and arduous though no doubt rewarding lifestyle choice. John, for the sake of his continued happiness, took every chance presented to him to get the fuck away from his room-mate.

And it was his expert opinion that sinking into textual fantasy would give him the vacation he needed. Thus, two mugs of tea later found him four pages into _The Temple_ by George Herbert.

The book had come well recommended. John had stopped to chat up the librarian on his way out, and had been convinced to add the book to his stack. He remembered quite vividly the enthusiasm she had used to expound upon the author's talents.

Perhaps she had not been quite so kind and genuine as she first appeared.

The fourth cup of tea had him questioning whether the constant drinking and then requisite kettle-filling and kettle-boiling was some form of unconscious stall tactic. He glanced towards the book perched on the arm of the chair, spine quite bent.

Perhaps not so unconscious.

Fifteen torturous pages later, and John's eyes were beginning to cross. Never let it be said that John Watson was not an enduring man.

Just as he was considering to admit defeat, the quiet padding of feet down a certain staircase drew his thoughts away from the hateful book in his hands. "Sherlock?" he called questioningly, wondering where he might be able to stuff the book and _not_ have the world's only consulting detective find it and proceed to mock him mercilessly.

"I had the most frustrating dream, John, I dreamt that I was - _what are you reading_?" Sherlock, perceptive as ever, correctly interpreted the rather hunched and defensive posture of his room-mate.

"Ah," John licked his lips. "It's called _The Temple, _by George Herbert. It's quite lovely actually, I've only just begun, but I've had several people tell me how much they enjoyed it."

Okay, so one person had. And that person had been rather busty and, now that he thought about it, evil.

"Indeed?" Sherlock questioned, moving into the kitchen to check on his various petri dishes.

"Yes. Yes, very much."

The resulting silence left John with two choices: admit surrender or continue to plod through the damnable work. Well.

He was a soldier after all. And sometimes, soldiers had to do some pretty horrid things.

With Sherlock now pacing bat-like through the flat, John had to resort to much more unobtrusive methods. However, even the usually enjoyable game of "count how many letter As there are on a page" lost it's allure. John glanced at the clock.

2:12 PM.

He wondered what deity would be most likely to respond to his prayers for a case, or if they were all out of cases, he wouldn't find an unexplainable bolt of lightning hitting the book remiss either. In the end, he decided all the female ones were out - they couldn't be trusted with the likes of George Herbert. That left the villainous Gods, who were just as likely to trick him into actually _reading_ the damned thing, and the good ones who were just as likely to take Herbert's side. The guy must've had an in with _someone_ up high to get this thing even published.

He glanced at the clock.

2:16 PM.

Bloody _hell_, four minutes had passed.

Zeus. He would pray to Zeus. He had lightning bolts, and that was all that John really cared about. The more fire power you have, the more you can blast George Herbert to hell.

It was not Zeus, however, who came to his unexpected rescue two excruciating hours later. No, his unforeseen hero came in the form of a purple cardigan and a pair of smart, capable heels.

"Oh, dear, it's so wonderful to see you relaxing a little now and again! You and Sherlock get up to so much _nonsense_, I do worry about you, you know, what with your leg and all, though you haven't been using your cane as much have you? All that exercise you get running around with Sherlock must be doing you some good, but I am quite glad to see you taking a bit of leisure time, you know, it's good for the soul …" Mrs. Hudson trailed off as she floated about the flat, straightening a few askew piles of magazines and picking up the odd tea cup despite her usual not-your-housekeeper protests.

"Y- … yes, Mrs. Hudson," he tried to interject politely.

"Oh, and you're reading some new books are you? I saw you come in this morning, I didn't know what you'd been out to do, though of course that's not my business now is it? Though a good book now and again really puts things into perspective I think … what is it you're reading now?"

John glanced down pathetically at the novel in his lap. "It's a novel by George Herbert …" he trailed off, eye taking on an alarming gleam. "You know, it's quite good. I'd be more than happy to lend it to you, Mrs. Hudson, you do work quite a lot, and as you said, a good book and leisure time and all that, good for the soul. No no, now I won't hear any excuses, you enjoy that book now, you hear?" He quickly pressed the landlady out of the flat, shutting the door with a satisfying snap to drown out the protests of _Oh, but I couldn't, dear! _and _You're still reading it, though!_

John was so relieved to have the book out of his hands that he didn't even notice Sherlock ghost past with a twitching smirk on his face, and he laid against the door frame with a sigh.

He'd had enough of Mr. George Herbert. Not even an eternity of Sherlock was worth him as a reprieve.


End file.
